


Tom Hiddleston Character Prompts

by supersoakerx



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), High-Rise (2015), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Night Manager (TV), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, femme!reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: Mini-stories (generally <1k words) I've written on my blog about various characters portrayed by Tom Hiddleston. See chapter notes for tags.
Relationships: Jonathan Pine/Reader, Jonathan Pine/You, Loki/Reader, Loki/you, Robert Laing (High-Rise)/Reader, Robert Laing (High-Rise)/You, Sir Thomas Sharpe/Reader, Sir Thomas Sharpe/You, Thomas Sharpe/Reader, Thomas Sharpe/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. Loki x Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : P: “Pretty people hide ugly secrets.”  
>  **Pairing** : Asgard!Loki x femme!Midgardian!Reader (tiny little sprinkling of Jotun!Loki too!)  
>  **Warnings** : I make up a bunch of political strife/crises just go with it x

“Do you see them?”

His presence behind you is too swift and silent to disarm you. His voice purrs in your ear, hot breath fanning over the shell and bejewelled lobe.

You do not flinch from his proximity, and merely bring your glass from your lips to answer him. “I see something far too beautiful,” you murmur as you cast your gaze over the throng of people amassed in the throne room. The gleaming Hall of Asgard is full of delegates, friends, and enemies from across the Ten Realms—smiling and charming one another, dressed in magnificent garments, and lit by the soft peach glow of candle wicks and harmless golden enchantments.

“As do I,” Loki croons into your ear, his eyes half-lidded as he drinks in your perfume. “But you know what they say…”

You hum a quiet laugh. “’They’? What do ‘they’ say?”

Nose to your neck, he flicks a glance upward. You are not being watched. **“Pretty people hide ugly secrets.”**

Before your eyes the fire beings turn black and poisonous, oozing noxious green viscera from every craggy cavity in their form. Panic seasoned by horror flares in you before you realise—from the lack of response elsewhere—Loki has merely cast an illusion.

For your eyes only.

“The rulers of Muspelheim would sooner see their dragons’ extinction before shutting down even one mine.” Digust laces Loki’s voice. He turns his head, and your gaze follows. “And there,” Loki continues, his magic turning the Alfheim delegates into rotting, emaciated skeletal forms, “the Light Elves would never betray the details of their many and bloody civil conflicts with the Faerie People.” He growls into your ear, “the insurrection. Sedition. The capital punishment.”

You murmur his name with warning.

“Eitri stands here proud but you, my dear, would shudder at the sight of Nidavellir’s so called ‘refugee settlements’ that the dwarves are so boastful of.” Loki’s sorcery lengthens and broadens the dwarven folk into the grotesque trollish monsters found in children’s tales, full of fat and slobber and boils. “Even your own Midgardians plot meddling wars as your people destroy your planet.”

His magic shimmers across your people, but before he can create an illusion that would haunt your days you urgently whisper his name. “Loki!”

“Shall I go on, or will you desist with this nonsense and come to bed with me? It was such a delight last time. And the time before that.”

You take a sip of light, fruity Asgardian wine to collect yourself. “My place is here tonight.”

He scoffs. “I should believe it is. Lurking in the corner. Why should you admire such liars and—"

“Perhaps because it is my job to do so, my _Prince_ ,” you hiss the word, knowing the effect the single syllable has on all second sons. You feel the hot exhale of his mirthless laugh along the slope of your neck. “Not all were born into positions of power and privilege.” You turn your head over your shoulder to look him over distastefully, before casting your attention back to the Hall. “You may know secrets with which you cast quick judgements, but you—”

“Shall I show you mine?”

Your words fall apart on your tongue. Loki’s warm presence behind you turns cold, and sends a chill through your being. You murmur his name on shaky breath.

“My ugly secret,” Loki purrs slowly before taking a step backwards from you, and you whirl to follow the closeness of his body and face him.

He is totally transformed—and glorious. His skin is a grey-tinted cyan blue in this soft golden light, and his eyes are a rich, deep crimson. Two ribbed horns, as black and hard and shining as obsidian curl back over his head and he smirks—he sneers with sharp glinting elongated fangs—but you cannot be intimidated.

“Loki,” you breathe, entranced. Enamoured. You’d dismissed gossip that titled him the Dark Prince of Sorcery, but now, you wished you’d asked him to show you sooner.

Loki’s vicious grin falls. His magic in summoning his Jotun form hadn’t had the desired effect on you. He doesn’t know for how many moments he gazes at you, attempting to rationalise the awe and wonder and delight you regard him with—until Thor comes up beside him and claps him on the arm, offering a drink and a smile.

Loki’s concentration breaks and all the illusions he’d cast dissipate.

Reflexively you bow and greet Thor, and when you lift your head again, you see Loki is returned to his former self.

Ah, but you did well, Loki thinks. He saw disappointment flicker across your face for only a second, before you caught it and turned it into something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi and/or request a prompt at: <https://ladyfloriographist.tumblr.com/>


	2. Jonathan Pine x Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : #53 “I just want to be swept off my feet…is that so bad? I’m fed up of being alone.” rearranged a little bit, and a smattering of #54 One reaching for the others hand to comfort them, to provide support. A thumb brushing lightly against skin.  
>  **Pairing** : Jonathan Pine x femme!Reader  
>  **Warnings** : false names/identities, the Mallorca period, a bit of angst and feelings

He watches from the cottage as you sit on the shoreline, facing away from him and looking out over the water.

Waves leisurely chase each other to the shore, and moonlight shimmers on the dark indigo expanse.

You dig your palms into the sand, he sees, and Jonathan remembers the first time he’d ever heard of you.

_“I’ve procured a girl for you, my good man,” Roper said one morning over breakfast._

_“A girl, sir?”_

_“A live one, too. I’ve had Corky have a little squiz into her, but I’d like to you to look over what the old boy has dug up.” He took a sip of half-orange, half-soda. “It’s too odd, Andrew, when we’re out. Can’t have you skulking about, the only single fellow in the party—”_

_“Well, Corky—”_

_“Nevermind Corky, young chap. Bachelorism doesn’t serve our purposes. You need a woman on your arm.” Roper tossed a passport at him with a casual flick of his wrist. “She arrives today, you lucky boy.”_

_Jonathan opened the small leather book, and read a name printed next to your photo._

_“Olivia Marie Cresswell and one Andrew Birch,” announced Roper grandly. “A nice ring to it, don’t you think?”_

Dicky’s words echo in his ears as Jonathan observes you on the beach. In the hours before your arrival, a few weeks ago now, he had examined your very life. He’d looked at where you’d grown up, where you went to school, where you’ve lived. Who you knew and who you screwed. He even knew the last lipstick you bought and your favourite coffee shop. Your photos had struck him: your eyes and your hair and your smile. How you’d gotten yourself caught up with a man like Richard Roper, he’d shuddered to imagine.

Without realising it, Jonathan had walked from the cottage to the beach, all the way to your side. “May I join you?” he asks as you look up at him, almost forgetting himself.

“Of course,” you reply. It was a strange thing that you navigated, to be so close and so far from someone. To be so outwardly intimate and so secretly distant. “Lovely night for lovers,” you say as he settles beside you on the sand.

“Mallorca is beauteous.” Jonathan dusts off his hands, pulls his knees up and leans on them.

You nod and sigh. “It’s a beautiful place, here. The people in it…” you trail off, unable but moreso unwilling to finish your thought.

Silence hangs on the warm, salty air—even the soft lapping of the gentle waves on the shore seems hushed.

“It’s late,” Jonathan says. “You should come to bed.”

You huff a small laugh. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I made you sleep on the couch for another night.”

He hums a quiet laugh of his own. “It’s not as uncomfortable as you may think, Liv.”

_Liv_. Another falsity you’d grown used to, and in such short shrift, too. “Jonathan,” you say into the night air, and he glances at you. “Andrew. Thomas. Jack.”

Jonathan swallows, and looks out over the rippling crystal of the black water.

“Don’t you lose track? Get tired of it all?”

“It’s important that I don’t,” he says, and the words weigh far more than the air he breathes them on. He stretches his long legs out flat along the sand, and holds himself up on flat palms.

“Why are you here, Mister Birch?”

For a moment Jonathan purses his lips, and subtly his eyes narrow as he draws in a deep, slow breath.

“No,” you course-correct, not wanting or needing to know anything more than what you already do. “Not that. Why are you _here_ ,” you point a finger to the sand, “now. With me.”

He’d liked the way you said his name, earlier—the name his mother had given him—and all he had left for you now in the warm, dark night was honesty. “I tend not to do things by half-measures, and I’m… **I’m fed up of being alone.** ”

With tentative caution you reach for his hand and fold your fingers with his, offering what small, little comfort one alone, lonely stranger can to another.

To your surprise he clutches your hand tightly in his. You don’t say anything.

“Would it be so bad,” he murmurs, looking down at your joined hands, “if I swooped in and swept you off your feet? You could do the same for me. We could pretend. **Is that so bad?** ”

“We are forever pretending, Jonathan,” you say, and his big blue pained eyes flick to yours. On a whim—or something deeper: on a sudden impulse, a tugging urge, an urgent need—you cradle his cheek, his skin warm and stubbled, and whisper, “Let’s not pretend, tonight.”

His gaze roams your face, landing on your lips.

Breathing deepens, and time slows, for both of you. “I’m not Olivia, Jonathan,” you murmur.

“I know,” he replies.

A mild summer breeze caresses your skin as Jonathan caresses your lips with his own. You kiss under the moonlight: slow, exploratory grazes as your mouths find rhythm against each other. He cups your face in his palms, his skin roughened with sand, and deepens the kisses he pries your soft mouth open with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi and/or request a prompt at: <https://ladyfloriographist.tumblr.com/>


	3. Sir Thomas Sharpe x Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : 91. “I’m not kissing you in the rain! We’ll catch our death!” – edited slightly  
>  **Pairing** : Thomas Sharpe x femme!Wife!Reader (Thomas lives!!)  
>  **Warnings** : Allerdale Hall (is it a warning?)

He gripped your hand tightly in his as you walked together into the foyer, reassured by the warmth of your skin that permeated through two gloved layers.

You glanced at his face. “I’m here, Thomas.”

The Baronet cast his gaze around the foyer and up the impressive staircase. He swallowed, collecting himself. Even in advanced stages of dilapidation, Allerdale Hall remained as eerie and seductive as it had always been. Thomas realised his jaw was clenched tight, so he squeezed your hand and attempted to calm his flittering, fluttering nerves.

He looked to you. “I thank you, my love.” He remembered your new title, and it warmed his heart so much so that he managed to offer you a small smile. “Truly, I do,” he leant closer to your ear and whispered, “Dame Sharpe.”

You smiled at him as he pulled away, and his expression broadened into a bright and genuine grin at the sight of your warm, smiling face.

With awe you looked around the place and said, “There is much history in this house.”

“Too much,” Thomas scoffed. “I shall be glad to be rid of it.”

“Is that truly what you want, my love?” You glanced at your husband. “We may be able to restore it.” You looked up at the collapsed ceiling and gaping roof. “At some expense… but with a loan, perhaps.”

The Baronet sighed. Though he could not take his eyes from the opulence and splendour of the crumbling ruin of this once proud home, Thomas was eager to conclude his business here. “I have considered this from all angles, and before our arrival here I considered myself resolute. Hmh,” he huffs a laugh, surprised at himself, “now that I have returned…”

A light but chill breeze brought a smattering of autumnal leaves into the foyer from above, and you shivered and leant closer to Thomas as dark clouds gathered overhead. Perhaps the Sharpe’s ancestral residence was not as habitable as you had supposed.

“Shall we go through to the library?” Thomas asked, gesturing towards the archway to the right. “Let’s go through to the library. What a good idea.”

He led you through to the grand room, with an exquisite fireplace and lavish furnishings, the latter of which continued to a raised upper level.

“Thomas,” you gasped, marvelling at the excellently-appointed—albeit, slightly dank and musky—room, “before you do anything you simply must auction the furniture.”

“Do you think so, my sweet?” said Thomas, distractedly.

You hummed in agreement. “Many of these pieces are in fine condition for sale—and the paintings!” A particularly large and intimidating portrait hung above the mantle, and when it caught your eye you turned immediately to your husband for his comments.

You found him already staring at the very same.

“My mother,” Thomas said softly, mournfully, with both regret and disdain.

You walked to Thomas’ side and placed one hand on his shoulder, and with your other, sought to hold his gloved palm in yours. “Shall we do this another time, my love?”

“Yes, my dear.” Thomas shook off his reverie, as if broken from a trance. “I think that will be best.”

The pair of you made your way from the library, through the foyer, out to the two-horse, hooded carriage that waited for you. Rain sprinkled through the sizeable hole in the roof: you took your leave in the nick of time.

Crossing the threshold into the open air, Thomas felt overwhelmed with a sense of freedom and relief mingled with love and affection. He stopped abruptly and clasped both your hands in his.

He spoke your name tenderly. “I could not have revisited this place without you.”

You smiled at your husband, enjoying his proximity and the way his voice purred over the vowels in your name. “Yes, you could have, Thomas.”

“No,” his eyes crinkled with warmth and tenderness, “you know not the light you are for me.”

He leant close to press a gentle kiss upon your lips, but, with your better judgement and decidedly not the insistence of your heart, you stopped him with a hand on his chest. “I think not, my dear,” you breathed onto his lips.

“Why ever—?”

“In this weather?” you swallowed, resisting the urge to give in. “ **I shan’t kiss you in the rain** , my love.” The carriage idled, and it would be smart to make haste against the impending storm.

Thomas licked at his bottom lip, gazing at your mouth.

“ **We’ll catch our death**!” you uttered quickly as larger, colder, more determined droplets of rain fell to the ground around you. “Come now,” you took his hand and pulled him towards the carriage. “At the hotel, Thomas,” you whispered urgently, sweetening your refusal with a subtle offer of something richer than a kiss, later.

“Indeed,” he murmured, smiling handsomely as he pulled open the carriage door for you, “my Lady Sharpe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi and/or request a prompt at: <https://ladyfloriographist.tumblr.com/>


	4. Jonathan Pine x Reader 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda building on this [a little tidbit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873998/chapters/70830384) (chapter 2) where Reader—under Roper’s instructions and coercion—has assumed an identity in order to pose as Jonathan’s girlfriend/lover/partner/significant other.
> 
>  **Prompt** : 40. “Stop being a fucking dick.”  
>  **Pairing** : Jonathan Pine x femme!Reader  
>  **Warnings** : staged/fake argument, Jed (Jemima) Marshall is in this for a second, fake name/identity for Reader

Jonathan glances at his watch.

A minute to go. Sixty seconds until you and he had to create a convincing distraction.

He takes a casual sip of white wine and stretches an arm across the back of your chair languidly. “Darling,” he croons, interrupting your conversation with Jed with a voice as smooth as rippling silk.

You turn and glance coquettishly at him, batting your lashes. “Yes, Andy?”

Jonathan smoulders at you. Slowly, intimately, he leans closer and ducks down to your ear. He whispers, “Fifty seconds to the drop—and I’ve just said something naughty.”

You let your face break into a smile and you giggle.

“Excellent,” he breathes into your ear, then pulls away to look lovingly at your face, runs his finger under your chin, and leans in again. “Something even worse now,” he hums a breathy, sexy laugh, his hot exhale fanning over your neck. “Something about taking you to bed. Ravaging you for hours on end. Very sexy. Makes you flustered.”

“Oh, Andy—you fiend. We’re at dinner,” you giggle and whisper, pretending to glance around for any onlookers while hoping, at the same time, to go undiscovered.

You are picture perfect—just like two people new to being in love with each other.

“Well done,” he murmurs into your ear, “remember—throw a drink or slap me. Race off to the—”

“Your _mouth_ , Andrew Birch!”

“—good—stairs. I’ll follow you. We leave when Dicky finds us.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek and stands from his seat. “May I get you another, princess?” he says, wetting his lip and pulling it between his teeth for a moment.

You push your empty glass towards him. “Thank you, darling.”

Jonathan strides with deliberate, designed swagger to the bar, and your gaze follows him with adoring bedroom eyes. He leans over the bartop and you rest your chin in your palm, gazing at his form. You can’t see his face from here, but you know he’s started flirting with the woman behind the bar because the look on her face changes.

She’s smiling, but bashfully. He leans further over the bartop, and must say something else to her—because she laughs, and a delighted twinkle shines in her eyes.

You’re on. You sit up straight in your chair and drop your arm to the table. Your brow creases as you watch Jonathan.

“Ok, Liv?” asks Jed from your other side. Her voice is soft, but concerned.

“I don’t know yet,” you reply with a hard edge to your tone.

Jed plays her part. She follows your gaze and mutters, “Oh, no.”

Jonathan’s body shudders with laughter. You scoff and scoot back in your chair, incredulous anger painting your features. He turns and strolls back to your table, holding two drinks.

“Oh, no. Oh, bad,” Jed says, taking a sip from her gin and tonic and turning away from the impending lovers’ quarrel.

Jonathan reaches the table and sets the two glasses down. “Now,” he croons, “where were we?”

You fold your arms as he makes to sit down. “What do you call that?” you say, flicking your chin in the direction of the bar.

Jonathan pauses, regarding you with cautious, careful eyes. “Darling—”

“No,” you reject his telegraphed attempt at a lie, “try again. What was that?”

Jonathan raises open palms to you, and takes a slow half-step back. “Olivia,” he says calmly. “Nothing. Honestly.”

You shoot to your feet. “Giggling and laughing. Do you think me a fool?”

“Darling, of course not.”

“In front of my own eyes.” You point your finger and poke it towards him, taking a half-step with the movement. “The hide. The _gall_ of you.”

Jonathan takes an obvious step back, ‘trying’ to diffuse the situation. “Liv, please,” he pleads, looking around furtively and, again, ‘trying’ to keep this conversation under wraps. “Not here.”

“Don’t!” you raise your voice, drawing more attention your way. “Don’t lie to me, Andy. I’m not as silly as you think I am.”

Jonathan softens his eyes and tilts his head to the side. “Princess, why would you say such a thing?”

“Christ,” you spit out. “Are you _fucking_ her?” You gesture vaguely in the direction of the bar.

“Olivia. Please.” Jonathan slings you a stern look. “Lower your voice.”

You shove his chair out of your path, making sure the feet scrape noisily on the floor, and step towards him. “How long?”

He steps back. “Let’s just go back to the room and talk about this.”

“How long, Andrew?” Heads are turning. People are starting to watch you.

“It’s nothing. She’s nothing, darling. Believe me.”

“Believe you!?” you scoff, your inflection rising in pitch. “ **Stop being a fucking dick**. How long?”

“Not long!” Jonathan raises his voice to match yours, then winces and puts the heels of palms to his eyes like he regrets it. “Oh, God in Heav—sod it,” he mutters and mumbles. “Not long, Liv,” he says, guilt lacing his features. “I swear it. Not long.”

His voice sounds louder than it should have. The people around you are quiet: listening.

You make your lower lip tremble. “You’d want to tell me, Andy.”

Jonathan sighs, and his shoulders slump. “Since we arrived,” he sighs, remorseful and resigned. “The second night.”

You snatch a glass from the table and hurl the contents towards him.

The alcohol splashes onto his face and his chest and he gasps. His shirt and jacket will need immediate laundering.

“Liv,” murmurs Jed quietly, touching you gently on the arm. “Come on, let’s… let’s go, love.”

“Fuck off, Jed,” you shrug her off and stare daggers at Jonathan, who’d grabbed a napkin and was towelling off his face. She’d given you the signal. The trade was done. You could storm off now.

“Don’t follow me,” you snarl at Jonathan as you stride past him, your heels click-clacking on the floor.

“Olivia,” Jonathan says as you breeze past him. “Olivia, wait!” he calls again, louder, and you pick up your pace, heading for the stone staircase around the corner.

Jonathan tosses his napkin to the table and follows you. calling out to you with your fake name and fake nick name and fake pet names. It’s quite a scene, quite a debacle for those unaware—which included almost everyone watching.

It was perfect.

Jonathan catches up to you quickly, grabs your wrist and murmurs quickly and quietly, “Ready?”

“Yes,” you reply, your voice scraping just above a whisper.

He tugs your arm and crowds you up against the stone wall. He cups your face and kisses you deeply, with need and fervid passion.

You return his kiss eagerly, clutching his lapels and crinkling the expensive material in your palm. Your mouths move together with a rough and desperate hunger, and the press of his lips and sweep of his tongue is insistent.

You grab his hips and pull him toward you, and you gasp.

To your great surprise, you feel a bulging stiffness pressed up against your body through his slacks.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan gasps.

No time for that now. You all have parts to play—and biology just gets in the way of the ruse.

His hands find your waist and he kisses along your jaw to your ear. “Truly. I’m, I’m so sorry. I can’t—"

“It’s fine. Just kiss me,” you mutter, breathless and thankful that he can’t tell, like this, the state of your own arousal.

Jonathan plants a long, sensual kiss to your mouth, then comes back again and again for more, licking your tongue and your bottom lip.

You run your hands up the back of his neck and try not to grind against his erection. “Put your hand up my dress.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

You chase his mouth for more hot, messy, turbulent, undignified kisses, and Jonathan finds the slit in the side of your dress. He slides his hand up your thigh, and his fingers and palm are warm on your skin.

You moan at his touch—completely involuntarily—and he does the same—a total accident—when he hears the pleased sound and swallows it.

“Alright there, Birch?”

Roper’s sardonic, gravelly baritone slices through the fake-true, pretend-real atmosphere, and Jonathan breaks the kiss instantly. For a few fleeting moments, he pants into your open mouth while he catches his breath.

Jonathan spins on his heel and straightens his collar. He clears his throat, standing in front of you to somewhat shield you from prying eyes. “Fine, sir. My apologies.”

Dicky hums dismissively. “Quite alright, old chap.”

Roper’s ‘business associate’ catches an eyeful of you. “Ah, there now,” the man says in a thick accent, “I see you two have made up nicely, huh?”

Jonathan laughs it off. You play at righting your dress. “I believe so, sir.”

“Quite a commotion, earlier.”

“Ah,” says Roper, clapping his business partner on the shoulder. “I’m sure you remember, dear friend,” Roper subtly leads his associate away, “what it was like to be young and in love?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi and/or request a prompt at: <https://ladyfloriographist.tumblr.com/>


	5. Teacher!Robert Laing x femme!voluptuous!Teacher!Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : 28. “How can you drink that stuff?”  
>  **Pairing** : Science Teacher!Robert Laing x English Teacher!femme!voluptuous Reader (I feel like I could easily write more of this and to future-proof it, I want for Reader to be thicc at the outset x)  
>  **Warnings** : TEA!

You hold your mug under the urn and pull the small lever to release the boiling water. It pours, steaming, into your cup, slowly changing colour as the tea steeps.

A colleague comes up next to you at the bench in the staffroom. “Ready for another term?” he smiles cordially, setting a can of Red Bull on the bench and pulling a pack of biscuits from the all-staff tin.

“As I’ll ever be,” you smile back, and glance at his energy drink. “That’s a bold choice, this time of the morning. **How can you drink that stuff?** ”

He chuckles, then places his hand over his heart. “I know. The tragedy. I’ve run out of tea bags.”

“Oh no!” you commiserate with him, but playfully. “Day one of term and no tea? How will you get through it?”

“This is quite literally my last resort,” he says in jest.

“Here,” you reach for your personal tin from the shelf and offer it to him, “take one. _Please_ don’t drink that, that, caffeinated sugar water.”

He glances at the proffered selection of your favourite teas, and looks back up at you with a half-pleading, half-apologetic expression. “Would you mind terribly?”

“Be my guest,” you thrust the tin of teabags towards him to emphasise your point.

He smiles, relieved and grateful, and plucks a sachet of earl grey from the small box. “My favourite,” he leans a little closer and raises his brows, “I owe you one.”

“Not at all,” you put the tin back on the shelf and wave your hand to dismiss the idea. “I had the same,” you hold the small, light yellow tag between your thumb and forefinger. “Must be the weather for it.”

“Must be,” he agrees, and pulls the milk from the fridge. “But I have to take mine with a dash of—”

“Milk.” You finish his sentence for him.

He gestures with the carton of full cream milk, smiling and raising his brows to wordlessly offer to pour some into your cup for you.

“Please,” you slide your mug a little ways along the benchtop towards him.

He nods and tips, somehow, the perfect amount of milk into your tea. “Rob,” he says, pulling back and setting the carton on the bench. “Robert Laing. Science,” he gestures to the crowd of teachers gathering at the front-most table in the staffroom.

You introduce yourself. “I just started with the English faculty.”

“First day, hm?” he bites his lip playfully as he fills his mug from the urn. “I didn’t think I’d seen you before.”

“Nope,” you sup your tea. “Brand new.”

“Well,” he picks up the carton and dips a splash of milk into his tea, “welcome. And thank you. This briefing would have been a rough slog without…” he trails off, and lifts his mug to finish his sentence.

For half a moment you place a hand on his forearm. “Don’t mention it,” you smile, and turn and walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi and/or request a prompt at: <https://ladyfloriographist.tumblr.com/>


	6. Adam (OLLA) x femme!voluptuous!Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : 13. “Can we just make a decision? Please?”  
>  **Pairing** : Adam (Only Lovers Left Alive) x femme!voluptuous!Reader  
>  **Warnings** : night drives to a video store, fluff-ish stuff, flirting, cursing (because it’s Adam), and would vamps love the idea of temperature play? I think they would

“Oh, my God. Adam, stop. Pull over.”

Adam glances out your window for the briefest moment. “What is it?” his vaguely interested baritone drones.

“Look!” It’s an old video store, a movie rental place, a relic from a time gone by. “Please please—oh! We’re past it.” You sigh and slump back in your seat, staring out the window as the next-to-deserted moon-lit city rolls by.

Slowing to a stop before a red light, Adam looks to you. “Really?” he says, with the faintest smile—like he could humour you, if you were sweet about it.

You put your hand on his where it rests on the gearshift. The chill of his flesh is comforting, somehow, and he feels the same about your warmth. You run your thumb over the exposed back of his hand. “I haven’t seen one of them in so long. I didn’t even know they still existed. Will you take me, baby? Can we go?”

Ever so subtly, the corners of his mouth tug upward, like he’s trying to hold back a smile.

“Five minutes,” you attempt to persuade him further, “that’s all. And we could have a movie night!”

His brows raise, and you shuffle a little closer to him in your seat.

You adjust yourself, pushing your chest out and pressing your arms together to exaggerate your ample cleavage. Then, you drop your voice and murmur huskily, “You could watch me eat a choc-top—”

The traffic lights turn green.

“—feel my mouth get all cold.”

Adam tears his gaze from yours and throws a u-turn, spinning his old Jaguar around and following the road back the way you’d come.

He smiles slyly at you out of the corner of his eye as the engine rumbles down the desolate street, and you grin at him. No more words need be said.

Adam pulls into the carpark, and an old neon ‘open late’ sign flickers and flashes in the large window.

“Wow,” you whisper, ripping off your seat belt and stepping out of the car. “I can’t believe this place is still here. I thought they all closed a few years ago.”

Adam huffs a shallow laugh as he shuts and locks his door. “Time in a lost place is a funny old thing.”

You whip around to face him, and find him glaring at the old building with thinly veiled disgust. The large windows are a little grimy, and two nearby rubbish bins overflow with garbage. Inside, one of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling flickers, and another one is cracked and broken, illuminating nothing beneath it.

“Fuck’s sake…” Adam murmurs quietly.

You stretch your arm out to him. “Come on, grumpy.”

Slowly his gaze lands on yours, looking every bit the part of a sullen teenager.

“For me,” you beckon him closer, offering your hand. “We won’t be here long.”

Begrudgingly, Adam stalks towards you and slips his gloved palm into yours. “They’d better sell that fucking ice cream here,” he growls, slipping on his Oakley shades.

“I’m sure they will, baby,” you croon, smiling back at him as you push open the large glass door.

It’s stale inside, the damp and dust only just kept at bay by whirring air conditioning that churns out crisp, cold, recycled air.

You shiver a little, and Adam finds it delightful.

The young clerk behind the counter looks up, slightly surprised but mostly disinterested. “We close in ten,” they grumble.

“Midnight?” Adam questions, and the clerk nods, going back to their phone. He squeezes your hand and says, “Make it quick,” – but your attention is already elsewhere.

“How much for a slurpee?” you call to the sales clerk eagerly.

They look at you with a blank stare.

“Sorry,” you gesture at the machine, rotating crushed, watery ice artificially coloured a deep pinkish-red. “For a slushie?”

“Two-fifty for a small, four bucks for a large.”

You glance at Adam, smiling sweetly. “It’ll make my tongue red,” you murmur breathily.

Adam regards you with an intense, lingering stare.

“I’ll taste a little sweeter,” you whisper.

He looks deep into your eyes, and when he glimpses your lips his nostrils flare very, very subtly—but enough for you to know, your whispered words are affecting him.

After pleading and paying you and Adam find yourselves strolling into the paranormal and supernatural section.

You break from his palm to grab at one of the selection, and hold it up to his face.

“This,” you say emphatically, “this was _so_ popular, babe.”

Adam tilts his head to the side as he scrutinises the cover. “’True… Blood’?” he says slowly, turning over the concept in his mind.

You nod. “It’s what the vamps drink. This manufactured kind of…” you search for the word, “synthetic blood.”

“Hm.”

“Based on books.” You hand the Blue-Ray to him and he peruses it further. “And HBO made it, so,” you wrap your lips around the clear plastic straw and suck more of the icy treat into your mouth.

You keep your eyes locked with his as you do, and Adam watches from behind his black sunglasses, rapt. You swallow and finish your sentence. “So, it’s very sexy.”

Adam looks set to lunge for you and tackle you to the musty, un-vacuumed carpet.

You think quickly, having bitten off more than you can chew and needing to pump the brakes on your teasing. “Here,” you grab the first thing you see and hand it to him, “another option.”

Adam takes the DVD case and his features soften. Gently, he trails the tips of two fingers over the cover art. “Vlad,” he murmurs, and his mouth breaks into a small, wistful smile.

Your gaze flicks back and forth from Adam to ‘Bram Stoker’s Dracula’ in quick succession. “You know Gary Oldman?” you squeak, incredulity lacing your voice and your features.

Adam smiles. He places the DVD back on the shelf. “By another name.”

You stare, gobsmacked, as Adam picks up another movie—continuing on as if no revelations have been divulged. His smooth forehead creases as he inspects the DVD and he flips the case over in his hand.

“Handsome,” he says softly. “Was this popular too?”

“’Twilight’?” you raise your brows. “Very.”

The furrow creasing Adam’s brow deepens, and he slides the movie back into its place on the shelf.

After a few more minutes of browsing, the clerk calls out from behind the counter, announcing to the pair of you that the store is closing.

You spin on your heel to face Adam. He’d been getting lost in small moments of nostalgia, disdain, and melancholy. Perhaps bringing him here was a bad idea.

“Come on, baby,” you take his hand in yours, “they’re closing. Pick one and let’s go.”

Adam grumbles an inaudible growl of a word and looks up from the DVD he’d been holding. He stares at the shelves, and clenches his jaw.

This isn’t good. **“Can we just make a decision? Please?”**

“Is _this_ what you thought of me and my kind before we met?” Adam says in the dull, drole tone of someone particularly unimpressed. “That I could, fucking, sparkle and glimmer in the sunlight?” Unceremoniously he drops the movie back onto the shelf, and his lip subtly curls in distaste. “How terrible for you to realise the truth. Fuck, you must be bitterly disappointed.”

You cock your head to the side. Though you couldn’t possibly have foreseen Adam confronting his own undead immortality at a Blockbuster in the middle of the night, this was definitely a bad idea. Adam was dipping his toes in the cold, dark, rippling pool of vampiric existentialism and no, you will not try this again, lest he fall in.

The clerk calls out to you again, impatient and tired.

You switch tacts, trying on something that all men fall prey to, living or undead. “Well, the truth is stranger than fiction, my love.” You step closer to Adam, and place your palm on his chest. You step up on your tip toes, and let your hot breath fan over his neck. “And far more… seductive.”

Like dropping a cube of ice into warm water, the press of your hand thaws his surly mood.

Adam gazes at your face. “Look at you,” he purrs, eyeing how the crushed, syrup-laden ice has changed the colour of your tongue. “You look like…” he licks at his bottom lip, “you’re just like… my little strawberry.”

You smile. “A strawberry, hm?”

“Yes,” he murmurs darkly, backing you against the shelves.

“Hey! Hey—excuse me. Look, I’m locking up and I really need y’all to leave,” says a voice off in the distance.

“Well, come on then, baby,” you murmur with a soft, breathy voice, “take me home and eat me.”

Adam’s almost never moved faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi and/or request a prompt at: <https://ladyfloriographist.tumblr.com/>


	7. Teacher!Robert Laing x femme!voluptuous!Teacher!Reader 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This builds on Chapter 5 x  
>  **Pairing** : Science Teacher!Robert Laing x English Teacher!femme!voluptuous Reader  
> Your thoughts on expanding this into a multi-chapter named "Tea for Two"??

A week later, and the staff room is once again full of people. Many of whom are far less cheerful now that the bright light of a new school year’s possibilities has dulled, replaced by the flickering, fizzing, half-dead halogen of administrative duties.

From across the room you catch the gaze of the Science teacher you met last week. Ron, was it?

No, Rob. Robert Laing, with the dark strawberry-blond hair and rain-cloud tinted blues.

Perhaps he’d been in your thoughts more than you’d realised.

The corners of his lips quirk in a genial little closed-mouth smile and his lids blink slowly, warmly at you. You return his kind gesture with a small smile of your own, and Rob glances briefly down at the steaming mug before him. A small tag hangs at the end of the string that loops over the rim of his cup, and he tilts it towards you: pale yellow, earl grey. He’s prepared this time.

Your smile broadens, and so does his, flashing hints of his neat pearly whites at you. His eyes crinkle somewhat, in the corners, and it only adds to the air of dignity and charm surrounding him that strikes you as—ultimately—handsome.

You give him one last smiling look before turning your attention back to the speaker—the Teaching and Learning Coordinator explaining a new inter-faculty program designed to cultivate a community of best practice, strategic improvement, data-driven decision-making, and other industry buzzwords that have somehow made their way into education.

You bid your gaze to focus, your ears to listen, but your interest is tugged elsewhere like a niggling itch you haven’t quite scratched. All the while you wonder if Rob has yet looked away from you and levelled his concentration at the present subject of this all-staff meeting.

Perhaps his eyes are lingering on you. Perhaps you wish they were.

The meeting concludes with the same-old, same-old. ‘Details to follow, keep your eyes on the email’ and wishes for a good week and good teaching.

Most other teachers make a grumbling, trudging mass exodus back to their cubicles, but a few linger behind.

You have a few minutes before the first period of the day—a senior class watching the latter half of a recorded Shakespeare production. You hesitate, before deciding that yes, you can sneak a cup of tea into that!

You walk up to the urn and gather the bits and pieces you need to make a fresh brew.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Robert comes up beside you and sets his mug on the bench, and the two of you share warm smiles. His light grey button-up is threaded through with sky-blue, drawing out his eyes into real things of beauty.

“This obsession with data and reporting,” he sighs, with a slight shake of his head, “is _not_ my preferred way to spend a morning.”

You smile ruefully at his gripe, a well-known frustration among your profession, as you continue brewing your tea. “Well, at least this school cares.”

He pins you with a pessimistic lift of his brow. “Or wants to look like they care.”

“Optics aren’t important?”

“’Optics’,” Robert huffs a laugh as he takes the milk from the fridge. “If they’re backed by something genuine, something meaningful, of course,” he says. “Although… not everything is only what it looks like.” He twists off the cap and pours milk into your tea, remembering how you take it.

You tear your gaze from his fingers, wrapped around the carton. “Sage wisdom from a man of Science,” you say, by way of a ‘thank you’.

Robert glances at you before adding milk to his own cup. “Perhaps there is a silver lining that I am overlooking,” he says, returning the carton to the fridge. He turns, front-facing to your profile, and murmurs, “Perhaps you and I will work together.”

The inter-faculty project. Meetings in free periods, or before or after school. Discussions. Collaborations. _Tea_. You open your mouth to say—

The bell goes. Three staccato dings, repeated once. The teaching day has now officially begun.

“Got to run,” Rob says with a smile, grabbing his cup of tea and making for the staffroom exit.


End file.
